The honor guard, though recently enraptured by Sora's plaintive singing, was at attention when the massive double doors opened inward. They sketched the formalities assigned them when their lord swept into the outer halls. It was rare they saw him leave the chamber, for the work he performed within was known to be taxing and needed to be performed without distraction.
When they observed the blood weighing his cloak, dripping from the tail of his coat of black mesh, and dotting the floor behind him they were perplexed. Their faces, though, were carefully schooled; they were charged with more than keeping Folken's door, but also to convey an air of distilled intimidation and menace. They were not alarmed by the sight of the blood as long as Folken did not act is if they should be.
Sora kept a respectful distance behind Folken, gracefully advancing without trailing the hem of her pale garment in the smaller marks of blood. Behind her she heard the booted cadence of the honor detail. She imagined someone would soon be called from sleep and dispatched to remove all evidence of the evening's disturbance.
Folken seemed oblivious to what little activity the floating fortress employed in the small hours of the night. His presence swallowed up the sentience of those he passed, leaving soldier and servant alike in a wake of fearful fascination. The inhabitants did not find their lord to be especially cruel, but they knew he tolerated no deviance from prescribed duties by accident or choice. Wisely, they appreciated his lack of acknowledgement.
Arriving at his personal quarters, Folken spared a final, weak, spike of anger to slam the less impressive double doors open with his inherited telekinesis. He did not waste physical or mental energy to close the doors once he swept within the room. Rather, he swept past them to stalk to the center of his high-ceilinged chamber where he stood and waited patiently.
Without hesitation, Sora followed him into the elegant, if spartanly furnished, room. A slight gesture indicated to the further, smaller, retinue already flanking the door, that it should be closed behind her. A second gesture, less abbreviated, told them a servant should be fetched with a basin of water. They accepted the orders without question; it wasn't the first time they'd followed similar instructions from the mysterious woman.
Sora found Folken standing in the Mystic moon's radiance; the light was allowed entry from the long thin windows bridging floor and ceiling. The blood was no less red in the pale light, though it was lent a silvery cast. His expression gave away little, certainly nothing of use.
Knowing his mind somewhat, she approached him and carefully took the cloak from where it draped over his arm. "I am not your maid."
He didn't deign to grant her comment a reply; his actions were sufficient to suggest he believed otherwise. With his hands free, he undid the stylized dragonhead buckle that held the elaborate overcoat's shaped leather closed in front.
Without giving in to a slight rise in irritation, Sora lifted a delicate hand to the coat's fur collar and pulled back. The garment slid to the floor easily, its metal fittings ringing quietly against stone. It was a stiff enough garment that it did not lose much of its shape even after being dropped to the floor. Sora mused silently that Folken's chains would not be so easily shed, especially if he did not wish to shed them.
Folken did not react when a hand servant, burdened by a basin of steaming water entered the room. He looked on nonchalantly as the servant kept his head down and placed the basin near Folken's feet. The servant coordinated with Sora with a few glances and bows of deep respect. Without words, the man unbuckled and helped Folken remove his breastplate, freeing a small deluge of blood previously trapped against the small of his back to run down the gray coat of chain.
It did not escape his notice that Sora had ceased all aid. Again, he found he could almost sense himself to be amused at her reaction. It was, perhaps, a remaining vestige of the man he once was that he could still be amused by what he took to be daintiness. The world had no place for squeamishness, but he could grant loyalty and usefulness the privilege.
The chain coat was easy enough to remove. He shrugged out of the amazingly heavy mesh with little help from the hand servant. As it was lifted from him, Folken turned his head to observe the extent of his wings' bloody reminder in the reflection of the room's only mirror. The undershirt's light green linen easily revealed his entire back to be soaked in blood while the back of his black trousers, shone wetly in the moonlight.
Snorting softly, understanding now the growing waves of light-headedness assaulting him, Folken began to loosen the simple laces of the green undershirt. Beside him, the hand servant waited attentively and took the shirt as it was pulled off and handed to him. Somewhat unexpectedly, though, the man backed away with a bow. He gathered the heavy load of armor and clothing and left the room.
Folken cast his gaze on Sora. "I thought you were not my maid."
The woman shook her head slightly, but stooped to retrieve a cloth from the hot water. "I am not," she repeated quietly, "but I know you are weary and dislike anyone to see you as such."
He snorted softly again, but began unfastening his trousers all the same. "I don't think I care for your maternal attitude." His hands paused and he looked over his shoulder at her frowning face. "Or am I mistaken?"
If anything, her frown came as close to a glower as he had seen. "If Folken-sama wishes me to leave, I will be happy to do so. I'm sure he can reach his back effectively on his own."
The comments were so mundane Folken found himself close to amused again. He attributed his mood to both loss of blood and, as she had said, weariness. "I find your presence sufficient."
"Very well," she sighed, and lifted the cloth with both hands to wipe away the wet and drying blood from his back. As she did so he leaned down to remove his boots and then straightened to further disrobe.
The wet blood came away easily under her hands, leaving thick outlines of dried blood in a macabre parody of a map. The blue tattoos of his youth, slightly blurred at the edges from age, put her in mind of bodies of water and his unadorned skin as desert. It wasn't the first time she had noticed them as such, but she felt it would probably be the last if he was not dissuaded from his course. Her last opportunity was at hand. He was physically weak, mentally weary, and emotionally drained; no time could be better.
There were many things that Sora knew through her natural gifts, but one in particular concerned her in regard to Folken. This night was the eve of his destruction and he would either die a slave to his hatred or, perhaps, be reborn as the man formerly crushed by a father's disappointment. Either way, the same hands that killed his father, ripped out his own wings, and yearned to crush his younger brother's neck sealed his fate long ago.
Sora's melancholy problem was that she had no real desire to see him die. She knew his pain, knew his reasons, though utterly misled, for all he'd done. And though she found him and his actions morally bankrupt on almost every front, she could not deny that his hatred and her sorrow called them together.
[Author notes: A bit more action, a bit less introspection, more indication that I'm more than a closet sukebe. Writing Sora has been very difficult, especially when she seems on par with Folken in the poker face department. Character interactions are cobbled together with a healthy dose of extrapolation and personal fancy.
One installment to go and I'm satisfied with it.]